There they go, arm in arm, my two companions Jiri and Marie,
at night along the unlighted street covered with leaves wet from the snow
Life partners for over half a century.

Jiri's steps flag and falter. "A circulation problem in my legs," he says.
And yesterday at tea I was surprised to see the Marie I've known for years
      suddenly disappear behind a mask, stolen away by some obscuring
      neural veil

"Alzheimer's," says Jiri.

But here they are, lurching and laughing, like two children at a game.

There they go, arm in arm, my two companions Jiri and Marie,
at night along the unlighted street covered with leaves wet from the snow
Life partners for over half a century.

Jiri's steps flag and falter. "A circulation problem in my legs," he says.
And yesterday at tea I was surprised to see the Marie I've known for years
      suddenly disappear behind a mask, stolen away by some obscuring
      neural veil

"Alzheimer's," says Jiri.

But here they are, lurching and laughing, like two children at a game.

I look at my friends holding on to one another as they weave and falter,
      and think of two trees in the woods.
Each bent and leaning against the other, with roots partly exposed,
      less strong and secure but still upright, still putting forth leaves
      and embracing the sun.

Here they go, my two old friends Jiri and Marie, linked arm in arm,
      like two old trees, weaving their unsteady and uncertain course
      on rough cobblestones and wet leaves.
Heading home up the narrow darkness of Glinkova Street
      on this cold, moonless
November evening in Praha.